100 years after the Second Wizarding War, and the Death Eaters are back. Hogwarts, newly rebuilt, has to muster a new courage, for the game has changed. A new story is rising. It's a new Age, a new Life and a new Generation. It's time for a Revolution.

Return of the Queen (Close)

Damien wasn't the average patron of the local and renown Leaky Cauldron, which wizards from all over the world from ambassadors to rock starts has grace these halls with their presence. In fact, even among the odd and weirdly dress characters among the normal customers, he seemed even more oddly out of place. He had an air of beastly wilderness about him. The dust ridden brown fur mantle hang loosely around his neck as Damien sat propped up on a bar stool at the counter. His untamed mangy black hair that stick out at odd angles, and unshaven face rounded off the wild look, only intensified by his earthy brown eyes.

With a deep, husky lilt in his voice, he beckon to the bartender, "Another Firewhisky!" slamming the empty shot glass upside down onto the counter. Damien, when the bartender got him a fresh refill of his tonic , reached over to take his glass. His fur coat fell off his right shoulder, revealing an arsenal of blades lining the belt loop of his off green pants. Each knife came in a different shape or size, some with jagged rigids or the blade curved to a point, almost like a hatchet. Each and every blade, even the well used ones, wore as sharp and deadly as the day Damien acquired them.

At the sight of the rows of knives, the Bartender became hesitant. His hand shook vigorously, spilling some of the firewhisky from the shot glass onto the counter, but Damien put him slightly at ease as he took the glass without a comment. Damien was there for one reason, and one reason only and that was to drink in peace.

Slowly, with the consumption of more alcohol, the atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron turn from tense, uneasy suspicion to one of loud boasterious laughter. Even Damien cracked a smile as he watched the festivities unfold before him, even including himself into some of the more peculiar conversations going on at the bar, but his attention was stolen as the backdoor to Digon Alley creaked open.

It seem like the volume of the Leaky Cauldron was instantaneously set on mute. The noises and conversations surrounding Damien seemed just a low note in the silence of the night, as he watch a pose, slender female approach the bar. Damien saw many of women in his line of work, but none compared to her. She had a sophistication about her, the way she moved as if gliding on clouds.

As she approach the bar, many of men took note of the alluring women, even Damien could not help but stare with a growing intrigue. Even though Damien with any other woman find her high class attire and presumption on personality unattracted, he found this fair maiden a mystery he must unravel.

She hardly took note of the stares or the suggestive comments a few low lives made. If Damien was not mistaken a faint smile flashed on her face, but it only lasted a moment in time. Was she flattered or was it something else?

“’Course,” Damien said in his usual husky voice. Using his animal skin boots, he kicked out the stool for the woman, who in turn thanked him with a curt nod, and a twinge of a smile. Damien turned back to his refilled drink, as it was still in his hand. The flames from the candle light flooded through his clear glass, illuminating the orange red liquor.

Once again his attention was drawn as if lassoed to the enigmatic woman sitting next to him. “Emrick,” she said in a smooth silky tone of voice to the barkeep, “bring me the Arctic Tundra.” It was a peculiar drink for the most peculiar woman. Unlike Fire Whiskey, which burns at first but as it settles, it warms every part of your body like glowing embers from the remnants of a dying flame, Arctic Tundra had the opposite effect. The only time Damien had it, it felt like he was drowning under a frozen over lake. It chilled him to his very core as if the reaper had come early to claim his soul. Even now, the thought of drinking it, brought an unmistaken chill down his spin, prompting him to take another swig of his whiskey.

“Interesting drink,” he commented, feeling the warmth returning to his limbs. As the woman waited for her drink, she crossed her legs. Her left heel ever so gently accidentally brushed up against his caff, still gracing that coy smile of hers.

Emrick in no time at all return with drink at hand. A perpetual fog billowed from the surface of the liquor, cascading over the brim of the glass and scattering across the counter top. Through the smoke Damien could see that the liquid in the glass was not liquid at all but crystalline ice. The woman seemed well verse in this drink, because she knew to blow on the surface to transform the solid ice into liquid once more.

She held it up toward Damien, and in kind, Damien held up his half empty glass. “The names Damien,” he said tapping his glass against hers.